Circle 2: Sunders
by scribblemyname
Summary: Set about a year before Dances. She dreams of touch. Romy
1. The Dream

A/N: I know. Naughty me. What am I doing starting another story without finishing the ones we all want? Well, it's complicated, but the short of it is as follows. In the course of creating website, I've been posting lots of my notes and got inspirations on my quickest of fics to write: _Dances_. The muse is dancing. _Everywhere_. Please just enjoy where she dances.

Dedicated to **moviemom44** and **coup fatal**, who's been wondering what I'm up to. :grins:

* * *

**The Dream**

* * *

She dreams of touch.

His skin is warm beneath the curve of her cheek, and she lifts her fingers in dreamy sleep, perplexed. She brushes against his stubble. It's him. His skin. Beneath her.

With a sharp shove and spike of terror, she pushes off him, hovers over, wide awake—caught in a nightmare.

"Remy!" she screams.

He doesn't answer her. He does not stir.

She screams.

* * *

Her thrashing wakes him. He catches his arms around the slender limbs, the arms, the legs, so much stronger than they've ever been before. Her hair spills against him like water. She almost slips away from his grasp with her turning. He pulls her against him, captures her in his embrace.

"Rogue." He calls her name softly, but there is no response.

The heated, feverish trembling of her body against his, the whispered moans of terror.

His tone sharpens. He brushes back the silken curtain of brown and white to see her face, shakes her in the circle of his arms to waken her. "Chère. Wake up, mon amour. You're dreaming. It's a dream. Jus' a dream," he breathes this last near her mouth. It's _their_ gesture of intimacy, almost a kiss.

Her hands clench tightly against his biceps, and he bites back a curse at the blinding pain.

Too strong. And it's a warning to him that she is not alone within her dream, beneath her skin. Too strong to hold.

"Remy." Her breathless, frightened voice caresses him. "Remy?"

The grip on his arms lessens. He stares down into emerald pools of terror shining in her fragile porcelain doll skin.

This girl is her. His Rogue.

"Rogue," he whispers her name, soothing, reaching out to cradle her in his voice.

He draws her closer, but she stiffens, sharply, and tugs against him, pulling away. Somehow, she slips through his grasp like water. He tries to catch her with his fingers, but she is already standing on the side of the bed.

"I need a shower," she says abruptly.

He knows that isn't what she needs. He knows the sound of her fear.

"Rogue..."

But she is gone.

* * *

She pours her tears out silently beneath the running stream of water. Her fingers splay against the shower wall.

She cannot do that to him, let him hear her tears.

Bare skin remembers the feel of his heat beneath her cheek, the stubble, the warmth of his breath. Then...

_Wake up,_ she commands herself, trying to be strong.

But another voice with far more strength than her own whispers back, _I _can't _wake up._

It rolls over her with quiet terror and desperation. She sees a flash of blue eyes, golden hair whipped by the winds in a battle with the Brotherhood. Her skin remembers, too well, the instant, too long, too late, of contact with that uncovered skin.

_I can't wake up._ The words haunt her.

She shivers, dreaming of touch.


	2. The Mind

A/N: This chapter was so close to done, I just had to finish it up and get it posted. I know there are a lot of other fics people are waiting on and I'm currently in the midst of _Son o' de Guild_, _Without a Trace, _and _Carnal_. I have not forgotten. :chugging away:

Dedicated to **moviemom44**, my constant inspiration for this arc, and **coup fatal**, who's coming back! Yay!

Thank you to all my lovely, kind, and wonderful reviewers:

To **A Rose in the Night**, I hope you're okay with where this story is going because it's...um...angsty? I mean, it's the _prequel_ to _Dances_ and we all know how that one started, so... I'm glad you're enjoying so far. It's going to be six chapters like the other piece. **ChamberlinofMusic**, you have said it so well: love and heartache. There's plenty of both. **Seren McGowan**, thanks for loving the take this story gives to _Dances_, but I assure you, I really am working on those other stories. This one is just so much faster! But **starlight2twilight**, you can't decrown me! I've had a rough life this last so long, and here I am back again, aren't I? I promise you'll enjoy the next chappie of _Without a Trace_. And **coup fatal**, you were right. It's Carol. Always Carol. And it gets worse. If it makes you feel any better, it was mostly your curiosity that inspired me to really answer the question on just what happened that brought them to _Dances_.

**Pennylane87**, I've got to admit, Remy's the one really trying here. Rogue doesn't want to be in the push/pull and the pain of not ever being able to have what she wants and now with the nightmares, she's just really close to a breaking point. So while I _understand_, I'm still rooting for Remy. Rogue pushing Remy away so hard is both for him to keep him safe, but also for herself in her own desire to have peace from the work and the struggle of this _touch_ thing. **Still Dazzled**, you make me so happy. I'll be updating frequently on a lot of stuff now. The lot of stuff is why I'm not finishing fics fast though. You awe me, **Merr2**. Getting a compliment from you is no small deal. But your last piece you posted had me crying. _Please_ don't do that again. It was awful. (because it was good) And I can't keep from reading you. You write so well. It was worse than _Scorch_. And thanks to **Lucky's Girl**. Creepy could be one way to describe Carol, but from her perspective, switching bodies might just be creepier. I can't blame her for being unhappy. And thanks for stopping in all over the place. I really _do_ follow the reviews with my writing. And it's been tough coming back after the hiatus and seeing all my favorite peeps not there. :sighs: You make my day.

* * *

**The Mind**

* * *

She wasn't prepared. When she finally emerges from the bathroom, he reaches for her, comforting touch at her shoulder.

She flinches away from him.

His hands fall to his sides.

Storm clouds brew in his dark red eyes. How long has it been since she ever recoiled from him?

She turns away and pulls on her clothes. She doesn't to think about it, to see the way she hurts him. But her body feels foreign to her as she slides into the fitted leather, heavy with the weight of the two consciousnesses inhabiting it. How can she let him touch her?

She can glimpse the red in her dresser mirror when she runs her brush through snarled hair. He is not reaching across the bridge of space that has grown between them with those half-clenched hands.

"I'm supposed to go see Hank," she says. She fixes her eyes on the hair, the brush, her fingers as she pulls it back.

His voice is his voice, not the frustrated growl it has become, when he answers, "I'll come with you."

She meets his gaze openly then, and he flinches back, as if knowing.

But he cannot know.

"He said I should come alone."

His jaw tightens, but he does not speak or ask the questions settling between their unreaching hands. The storm clouds rage in a dark red sea, but she studies his hands as he reaches for the handle of the door and walks away.

* * *

"Hank." She gives the other a mere nod of acknowledgment before gliding sinuously into the medical bay and settling herself on one of the beds, one leg crossed over the other.

This is not the Rogue he knows, and he frowns within his blue, furred face. The newcomer knows no better and casts his smile toward her to be met with a stony glare.

"What are we doing?" she asks, deliberately excluding the unknown from her question.

"We are taking a foray into your mental landscape," Hank says. "Due to the absence of any qualified telepath at our school and due to the delicate nature of the undertaking, we have determined that intermittent periods of suppression of your newly acquired capabilities may be in order." He hazards a glance at the unknown.

She raises an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"It's not that precise, Hank," he mutters.

But Hank is already waving aside both of their words. "Let us measure your tensile strength, shall we? I must request that you entirely focus on the new psyche within your consciousness."

She bristles, but submits, closing her eyes and turning inward.

Her mind opens up. She moves through it quickly, not looking at all the small mindscapes of the other residents that make up the greater picture of her own. Finally, she reaches the very back and the golden-haired woman by the river.

Carol jumps up.

_I'll give you whatever you want. _Her voice is frantic, blue eyes pleading, hands reaching out._ Just let me fly. Let me out. I'll..._ Her eyes search about in the mind around them. _I'll find a way to keep him safe.  
_  
It is the wrong thing to say. The reply is snarled. _You can't._ And the words are a wound. If she can't, neither can this intruder in her mind.

_I'll give you anything, if you'll just let me out._

_You can't give! You can only take._

Skin brushes against hers, and she recoils, eyes flung open in shock. Her hands have plastered against her head to stop the pain. But touch...

She screams.

"It's all right," this newcomer says. "I've turned off your power. I can touch you."

She gapes at him in horror.

He's turned off her power.

_He can touch you_, a voice whispers equal horror.

_He can touch me_, her own confirms.

Touch...

Horror coils into hatred. Her jaw clamps shut into an angry line. She reaches for her gloves and jerks them on.

He can touch her and Remy can't.

* * *

Something is wrong.

He doesn't even see le Bête or the other person in the room when he bursts through the door, only the flash of white and mahogany, her head turning toward him, emerald eyes, hard as jewels, in fragile, porcelain skin.

He stops at those eyes, uncertain. "I heard you scream." He sees le Bête then, frowning in his furry face.

But her eyes soften for the first time in so many days, and she slides off the bed and comes toward him, arms open to take him in.

He relishes the feel of her against him, but she's strong. Too strong. The words are right, but the accent is wrong.

"It's all right, sugar," she murmurs in his ear. "I'm all right."

Something is wrong.


	3. The Funeral

A/N: Well, just as a minor little update, I haven't forgotten "Shiver" or any of my other fics. I just needed a rest for a few days. Also, conference week approaches. Now, if you all remember last year, no updates go up during conference week (this will include _Moments_), but I'll probably post a LOT directly after. Thank you for your patience.

**Lucky's Girl** (Pulse, for the short answer. I don't know what you know about Augustus [Gus], but he can turn a mutant's powers off, thus in the comics making him Mystique's personal choice for her daughter's lovelife. It addresses how Gus got into _Dances_, which no one really commented on. The fact that Rogue had a perfectly good option available for her [physically anyway], but even when she _wasn't_ with Remy, she didn't choose that. And I have to admit, I enjoy writing the mental parts in this one and Carol and her voice in Rogue's head. And you know me, always pleased when I hear the characterization is working. Best words I could ever hear. :grins: ), **A Rose in the Night** (Carol hadn't actually taken control yet, but they're going to start vying for it and things are gonna get messy and Remy's going to be caught in the middle.), **coup fatal** (Carol isn't really evil. She didn't have a single choice in the matter. And frankly, if I was stuck _permanently_ in somebody else's mind and body, I'm not sure I'd do any better than she's doing here. At least she tried to make peace. Sort of.), **ColorCoated** (Intense is good! The other person in the room was Pulse. Since Rogue didn't know his name yet, I didn't use it. But Carol is the only other _complete_ psyche in Rogue's mind. Hopefully things will get clearer next chapter.)

Thank you all for reviewing.

* * *

**The Funeral**

* * *

Silken strands of white blow against the chestnut in the light wind. He wants to reach out and capture them, but she is fragile, emerald eyes breaking when they cannot soften.

"We are gathered here today..." 'Crawler opens with traditional, familiar phrases for those gathered around.

Carol's teammates, family, friends, the X-Men, the students who wish to support her, the students who just wish blessings on the recently departed. He has eyes only for her.

She hunches her shoulders. Her face is a study of confusion and tears. "Remy..."

He hears her soft whisper, _permission_, and finally draws her gently, tenderly into his embrace. She is so fragile.

* * *

She clings to him, one hand gripping the front of his suit jacket, the other holding to the arm he has wrapped around her stomach. She leans against his strength at her back as she—no, not _she_, Carol—is lowered into the earth.

_No..._ A horrified whisper uncurls from the back of her mind. _No. It can't be. I can't be._

_I'm alive_, her own mind whispers. _I'm Rogue. I'm..._

Her minds struggle within her and it is _her_ face in that casket. She struggles, holds to him holding her.

_I can't be dead._

"I'm alive," she whispers low, so low he should not hear it, but he does.

He holds her closer, breathes warmth against her ear. "Rogue," he whispers.

She hears her name. She is Rogue. She takes comfort in this firm reminder of who she is and who she is not. He is someone that belongs wholly to her, for Carol cannot touch it and Pulse can never give her anything she desires. For a moment, she is entirely herself, lost within his touch, his scent, the gentle murmur of his voice reminding. Her strength is not _that_ strength. She does not feel the urge to fly.

It never lasts. The dark cover is over the casket, and Carol's voice is pleading.

_It can't be. __Please! __I __can't be dead._

Frantic as the earth is spread over her—not hers, but Carol's—casket. She closes her eyes, but she cannot fight the voice. It washes over her, becomes her.

_I'm alive! I'm right here! I'm not in there. I'm here! I _can_ fly._

Carol cannot accept, and so neither can she.

* * *

Emerald eyes break into silent tears. He wishes so badly he could do more than hold her, touch her, keep her anchored. Somehow, she's slipping out of his grasp, and he does not know how to help her.

And somehow this wind of Storm's—or at least, that she is allowing—seems right as it tosses about the silky strands of white, blowing against the chestnut. This is _her_ moment. They're here for her, doing this for _her_. She's opening her eyes and desperately holding him tighter.

She is so fragile.

He gently, tenderly reaches for those silken strands of white and captures them.


	4. The Bargain

A/N: So I changed it. A LOT.

**ColorCoated** (I think that's what I like the most about this fic, trying to dive deep into their heads and just dissect those brief, world-changing moments in all of this mess. When you really think about what these two have to deal with, the emotional consequences of that are a whole lot stronger than what some folks give them credit for. :sighs: Well, I'd like to say it gets better, but it ends up before _Dances_, so... Yeah.), **CurrentlyIncognito** (Sorry! :frowns: I didn't mean to depress you. But um...Read _Dances_. That one's sweeter. This fic is how they got there in the first place.), **Lucky's Girl** (Gus's mutation is to suppress others. In the comics, Mystique thought he was the only suitable match for Rogue because of it. And you, girl, are very sweet. I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter. One of the things **Ludi** said in _Dances_ was about that: Remy is the one that's Rogue's greatest source of comfort, which is what makes it tough to really take when she pushes him away. But I don't actually blame her for being afraid and for not wanting to deal with all of this. She's human, after all.)

Now on to the story.

* * *

**The Bargain**

* * *

Neither of them can handle what he does to her. They are both defined by touch, the caress of empty air.

It's like a breath taken away when he suppresses her powers, the shuddering repulsion of skin upon her skin—_not his_—the frightening burden of the earth beneath her feet—_I want to fly_.

They hate him.

Beast knows this. He does not mention these things when they test and train and _he_ is watching outside the Danger Room, hands pressed to the glass as another man tries to get a touch in on a girl that won't be touched.

__

Only him.

I want to fly.

Carol loves the open air. _She_ wishes it away. Anything to have that skin, not waking in the night, heart pounding, remembering that breath taken away.

__

I want to touch.

I want to fly.

Mantras shudder, sliding towards a harmony. But nothing they can do can bring her back. And nothing they do can take these nightmares away.

* * *

He wishes he could reach her. He wakes to watch her breathe shallowly against the pillow, silken strands of white and chestnut rippling over the pillow, bathing his skin with the only touch of hers he'll have. Her eyelashes tremble as though the lids will open and he'll see the emerald shining underneath, but they never do. Her eyes are shut, and he hears the moaning whimpers of her dreams.

"I love y', chère." He brushes his fingers over her hair, breathes the words against her mouth, knowing she will not wake, not wanting to know _who_ would wake if he roused her from her sleep.

He knows when she wakes, she'll turn away and he will not see her eyes.

* * *

Neither of them can handle what he does to her. Even Carol is affected by the nightmares, the morbid fascination of a guilty mind with the pain of such potential. She could _kill_ him, the one person she promised to love unconditionally.

It's only a matter of time before the chasm between becomes too great, and she feigns sleep when he wakes and touches her hair—_don't shudder, don't touch, please_—before rising and leaving her for the Danger Room.

He knows how to play with danger.

But she doesn't. _She_ doesn't.

She wants to scream and rail and just wants this unbearable tension to end, all this fighting against the very thing she wants.

__

I can give you flight and strength, just let me out. I want to live!

You cannot give me anything I want.

There is only one thing she wants, and both of them know who it is.

She sees a flash of blue eyes, golden hair whipped by the winds in a battle with the Brotherhood. Her skin remembers, too well, the instant, too long, too late, of contact with that uncovered skin. She remembers the promise of a frightened mind without a home: _I'll do anything you want. I'll keep him safe_.

She cannot have what she wants.

__

Promise?

Minds meld into one, ideas exchanged, separate again.

They cry.


End file.
